The morning light in the Upper Terraces of Khorat didn’t warm. It merely lit up the cold.
Four thousand feet above Low-Khorat’s smog, the air tasted of pine resin and damp granite. Through the arched casement of their guest suite, the Grand Synod looked like a mountain castle carved from white cedar. Fluted rows of stone pillars stretched into mist, while far below, viaducts hummed with morning courier runners.
Ren Vale sat at the walnut table, rubbing his temples. Beneath his forehead, a dull throb pulsed in time with his heartbeat. The persistent mental bleed of seven alternate lifetimes pressing against his skull. If he closed his eyes, he could still taste the scorched dust of Apostate Ren’s crater. If he drew a breath, he could smell the hot grease of Unit Ren’s high-pressure pistons.
Across the room sat his sister.
Mira had pulled her chair close to the hearth. Her left hand drew a bone needle threaded with indigo silk through linen. Her right arm rested motionless on her lap. From her collarbone to her fingertips, the flesh was smoky, many-sided quartz, catching the light and fracturing it into pale lavender ribbons.
Every time she inhaled deeply, the lung beneath her right ribs gave off a faint crystal-clear chime. It was like a glass harmonicon struck by a felt mallet.
